by J. L. Doty
“What are we looking for?” the Surriot asked.
Tulellcoe started walking, called back over his shoulder. “I don’t know.”
JohnEngine and Tulellcoe moved slowly up the southern bank of the Ulbb, and the tension in his soul grew with each step. They didn’t know what they were looking for, but when they found it, it was obvious: a flat, shimmering wall of water, stretching between the walls of a high rock canyon, with just enough water spilling beneath the wall to keep the ford itself from going dry.
“By the gods,” Tulellcoe swore. “This thing has to have been building for days. And it’s Morgin’s work too. He must still be alive, otherwise the spell would have collapsed at his death. And what a spell it is.”
“I’ve been trying to tell you that,” JohnEngine said. “I’d know if he was dead.”
Tulellcoe nodded. “My apologies, John. The next time I’ll listen to you.”
Suddenly they heard shouts down at the ford. They both turned and raced downstream, arrived at the ford just in time to see the cause of the commotion trotting down the road: a shadow rider on a shadow horse, though the rider was weaving unsteadily in the saddle.
France and Abileen, followed uneasily by Packwill and the rest of the men, intercepted the horse, caught Morgin as he collapsed out of the saddle. JohnEngine ran across the road, helped them lay Morgin down near the trees by the edge of the river. But when he looked into his brother’s face he was forced to look away by the ever shifting pattern of shadows that danced there. Up close they induced a kind of vertigo in anyone who looked upon them. He has become the ShadowLord, JohnEngine thought. As if Morgin could read his thoughts the shadows disappeared and JohnEngine could see the pain and fatigue in his brother’s face, and the red stain that covered most of his left side.
“Go away,” Morgin pleaded. “It’s not safe here. The spell!”
“He’s right,” France said. “Illalla’s Kulls will be along any moment.”
The Balenda shook her head. “The Decouix isn’t scouring the road so thoroughly, now that he thinks the ShadowLord is dead. And this young man has something to do here with that spell of his, so he needs help here and now.”
While the Balenda examined Morgin, Tulellcoe sent Packwill back up the road to keep an eye on Illalla and warn them if he was approaching. The Balenda suddenly stood up straight, and in a bloody hand she held an equally bloody piece of the shaft of an arrow.
“How did you do that so quickly?” JohnEngine demanded.
She shrugged. “My magic has always seemed particularly effective at healing.”
“Get out of here,” Morgin shouted weakly at them.
“He’s right,” Tulellcoe said. “Pick him up and bring him with us.”
Morgin shook his head. “No. I’m staying here.” JohnEngine watched him attempt to stand, but he failed miserably, so JohnEngine helped him to his feet. “Get out of here,” he shouted again. “Go away. I have to do this alone.”
Tulellcoe shook his head, but the Balenda stepped up to Morgin and gently placed a hand on his wounded shoulder. She held it there for a moment, and JohnEngine sensed something arcane going on. Then she withdrew her hand and Morgin stood just a little straighter, though he still looked terribly weak. But the Balenda now swayed uneasily, and a red stain was spreading near her left armpit. She looked at Morgin carefully and said, “That’s the best I can do in so short a time.”
Morgin shrugged. “It’ll have to do.”
“No it won’t,” Tulellcoe snarled angrily. He pointed a finger at Morgin. “We’re leaving, and you’re coming with us.”
Packwill’s sudden shout, “They’re coming,” and the sound of his horse’s hooves pounding on the road brought their attention around. The scout was charging wildly down the road. “Right,” France said. “Let’s get the netherhell out of here.”
They all turned back to Morgin, but he and his horse were gone, having disappeared into the shadows of the forest.
“Damn!” Tulellcoe swore. “I pray he doesn’t get himself killed. John. Help Cort—she looks like she’s ready to pass out—and let’s try and find a place up the road where we can watch the action.”
~~~
Morgin waited until Illalla was well in sight, and then he trotted Mortiss out into the middle of the road, trying not to show the slightest hint that he was hurt, for the ShadowLord must appear invulnerable. The effect was immediate and undeniable: Illalla started and reined in his horse suddenly. He’d obviously thought Morgin dead.
This time Morgin had been more careful. Illalla was far up the road on the north side of Gilguard’s Ford, well out of bow shot, while Morgin had chosen to stand in the road a short distance south of the ford. Illalla held a hurried conference with his Kull commander. Orders were shouted, and in response twelve twelves of Kulls formed up in front of the main column.
The Kulls didn’t hesitate, but charged immediately. Morgin held Mortiss as still as he could keep her, as if he would meet their charge by just standing there. But in reality he reached deep into the back of his soul where the river spell had been festering for days. As the water had stacked up behind his translucent dam the spell had demanded more of him with each passing day. It had been like drawing a bow string back with infinite slowness, an easy task at first, but after enough time at holding the bow string taught even the strongest bowman’s arm begins to tremble with fatigue. And under the pain of his wounded shoulder as the Kulls charged down the road toward him he almost released the spell prematurely. But he held it, waited until his trembling magic told him he could wait no longer, and in that moment he relaxed.
The bow string in his soul twanged so loudly that even Illalla heard it on a nether wind. The Kulls, however, were in the midst of their charge, just approaching the ford and oblivious to anything but their target waiting in the road before them. An instant before they hit the shallows in the ford the ground trembled and the air filled with the sound of snapping trees. The entire company of Kulls was well into the ford when a wall of water, carrying dozens of splintered logs like battering rams, burst into the open flat of the ford. It slammed into the charging line of halfmen and horses, and with screams and cries the Kulls and their mounts joined the logs in the turmoil of water that swept down through the ford, and then they were gone.
The last vestiges of the wall of water washed away and an abnormal silence descended over the ford, and with the exception of a few dead horses washed up on the river banks, there was no sign that twelve twelves of Kulls had ever existed.
Morgin pitched his voice low and filled the silence with a single, evil laugh. He growled it out, not the laughter of joy or happiness, but a challenge to the High Lord of the Greater Council. And then he turned Mortiss about, and with his back to the High Lord he arrogantly trotted up the road, melting slowly into a shadow that vanished on the wind.
~~~
Brandon strode angrily down the hallway. A servant had come only moments earlier with instructions for him to attend the Lady Olivia in her audience chamber. With Malka and MichaelOff dead, DaNoel only slowly recovering from his wounds, and Tulellcoe and Morgin and JohnEngine off fighting Decouixs, he and Roland were the only two male family members present. As such he was receiving increased attention from the old witch, and it was quickly straining their relationship. He now understood why Morgin found it so difficult to get along with her.
If the servant had merely had instructions for Brandon to attend her, he would have dallied out of spite. But she had dangled the bait of news from Yestmark, knowing that he would then come immediately. It irked him that she could so easily manipulate him.
He was still well down the hall from the audience chamber when he heard Roland’s voice raised in anger, carrying on the same argument he and Olivia had been having for days now.
“Blast you, mother! Don’t you understand you sent him to his death?”
“I sent him to fight our enemy. And don’t you swear at me.”
“But you damne
d him publicly. You accused him of a cowardice he did not commit, and now he’s trying to prove himself. Don’t you see it’ll get him killed?”
Brandon passed cringing servants as he entered the room.
“I see nothing of the kind,” Olivia shouted. “I merely gave him a goal toward which he must strive, and it has worked admirably, has it not?”
“You’re insane,” Roland hollered. “You gave him an abyss from which he must flee.”
“Nevertheless,” Olivia said. “It has worked, has it not?”
“Ahhh!” Roland threw up his hands and stormed out of the room.
Brandon waited for Olivia’s anger to dissipate, though he didn’t have to wait long. “There is news?” he asked.
“Yes, there is news,” Olivia said happily. “And good news it is. In fact your uncle and I were just discussing it.”
“I heard,” Brandon said. “May I hear this news?”
Olivia positively beamed with pleasure. “I spoke with Tulellcoe this morning in the netherworld. Illalla’s men are deserting in droves. He’s losing them by the twelves each night, and now he’s got his clansmen patrolling his perimeter at night to try and stop the desertions. And he’s losing even more twelves because his men have started fighting among themselves, not counting the two twelves of throats that Morgin slits each night. This ShadowLord ruse that Morgin is playing, it’s brilliant. And at Gilguard’s Ford he’d apparently prepared a powerful water spell days ago, let it build into monstrous proportions, and yesterday used it to sweep twelve twelves of Kulls to their deaths. Ah that grandson of mine! I always knew he had it in him.”
Brandon was tempted to comment on that, but he thought better of it. “Gilguard’s Ford, eh? Then we have at least another five days before Illalla can reach Sa’umbra.”
“Even more,” she said happily, “if Morgin continues to harry him.”
“Oh he will,” Brandon said unhappily. “You’ve seen to that. But Illalla is no fool. He’ll not sit idly and continue to take this. I only hope that Morgin is prepared when he strikes back. For strike back he will. And soon.”
Chapter 20: The Shadow of Death
Morgin wanted desperately to sleep, so he left the Elhiyne camp and found a quiet, grassy spot by a small stream that called out to him to lie down and rest. The sky was clear, the sun high, and the grass beneath him was a soft blanket of life, but try as he might, even aided by the monotonous crackle of the bubbling stream as it wound its way uncaringly past, sleep would not come, for there was a tension in the air he could not name.
On the day following the flood at Gilguard’s Ford he had awakened under the care of the Balenda. He was surprised at how strong he felt, and how weak she seemed, and then he learned that the price she paid for such miraculous healing was to bring the suffering upon herself. She said that the ShadowLord was the most powerful weapon they had against the might of Illalla, so it was her duty to return him to strength as quickly as possible, and by the end of that first day he was well enough to return to Illalla’s camp that night and slit his quota of throats. Even Tulellcoe agreed that the pretense of the ShadowLord must be maintained.
He had returned to the Elhiyne camp, rather than melting into the shadows after the night of slitting throats, for shadows alone were poor company. But the following day, when the Balenda wanted to use her healing magic upon him, he could see that she was terribly weak from taking his suffering upon herself, and he refused her aid. He was strong enough to ride now, and to slit throats, and to appear regularly before the main column of the Decouix army as the mythical ShadowLord. And that was all that was needed of him. He was their weapon, their tool, and he understood that.
He tried again to shut out the world about him and find sleep, but it would not come, perhaps because he now feared sleep, and the dreams it brought; one dream actually, for it was always the same dream now: of an old man and a long dead skeleton king, of strange lands and even stranger beings. There was a great hound that stood as high as any man, with enormous powerful jaws that could swallow Morgin’s head whole. It was called a hellhound, and upon its head it wore a crown. There was also an odd beast half eagle, half lion. Its head, wings, and forelegs were those of an eagle, while its hind legs and tail were those of a lion, and it stood even larger and more fearful than the hellhound. It was called a griffin, and upon its head it wore a crown.
At first he thought he was dreaming many different dreams, but as he returned to them again and again he realized they were merely different parts of the same dream, a dream that always brought him to that same grassy plain, seated atop that same magnificent war-horse, wearing that same finery with that same great broadsword strapped to his side. And the dream never changed, though now he at least understood some of it. He knew that it was not he atop the horse, but another who had lived in a time and place different from his own. Perhaps the man had lived in the past, or perhaps he never had and never would live, but in the dream Morgin was a captive in the man’s soul. He looked through his eyes, listened through his ears, felt through his hands. He was never himself in control, and in the end it was always the same: seated atop the great war-horse, facing a vast army, with one equally as vast behind him, Morgin would wake screaming in the night, with wave after wave of terror washing over him. And never could he remember the dream’s end.
But he didn’t fear bad dreams. Bad dreams merely disturbed one’s sleep, and were over upon waking. What he feared was the repetition, the same dream returning again and again, each time more vivid than the last, until the line that separated reality and dream became gray and indistinct. It was the total dissolution of that line that he most feared, for when he could no longer distinguish between reality and dream, madness would be his fate, though sometimes, as now, he almost longed to embrace that madness and be done with it.
He gave up on sleep, opened his eyes and sat up. He stood, walked to the edge of the stream, thinking of the cold water there and how it would feel good to splash some on his face. He knelt down near a calm pool, cupped his hands, bent to retrieve the water, and as he did so he looked for his reflection there, but all he saw was a shadow.
His hands trembled. He sensed his power flowing about him, growing ever stronger with each passing hour, each passing day, as if it was building to some arcane crescendo. Perhaps that came from using it almost continuously now, day and night. Not even Tulellcoe would attempt some of the spells he cast now as a matter of course. And yet, with all that practice, his control was slipping relentlessly away, much like the water that drained slowly through his fingers no matter how tightly he cupped his hands.
He wondered for a moment if it was the killing. Perhaps being the instrument of so much death was affecting his contact with the netherworld. Of late, death had become an integral part of his life.
He splashed water on his face and looked again at his image in the pool. He concentrated, and slowly the shadows dissipated, and the scars of his childhood became visible, though time and AnnaRail’s healing magic had made them faint and indistinct.
“Morgin, lad,” France called. “The scouts are returning.”
“I’m coming,” Morgin called back, but he took one last look at his reflection in the water. France had startled him and broken his concentration, and the shadows that swirled about his face had returned. Again he banished them, though each time he found it harder to do so.
When he walked into the camp the scouts had already arrived. Their horses were badly lathered and they themselves were breathing heavily. Packwill faced Tulellcoe and spoke rapidly. “Salula has returned from Sa’umbra, my lord, and brought Prince Valso with him. Then Salula left the main column with twice twelve twelves of Kulls at his back. They’re riding light; probably journeycake, water, and a blanket, and they’re riding hard, my lord, straight for us.”
“How much time do we have?”
“Not much, my lord. They’re not far behind us.”
The Balenda laid a hand gently on Tulellcoe’s should
er. “Do we fight, my lord, or run?”
Tulellcoe spoke to Packwill. “Find us a good place for an ambush, bows and arrows only. And make sure we’ve got a good out for a quick retreat.”
To the Balenda he said, “First we fight, Cort, then we run.”
~~~
Morgin waited with the rest of them hidden well within the trees. He was far from comfortable, trying to suppress his magic, fearful that Salula would sense him. He watched the Kulls work their way slowly down the steep slope, Salula foremost among them. They didn’t chatter and talk while they rode as ordinary men might, but held to a dark and foreboding silence. They were like gray black shadows in the sun: stark, deadly, malevolent. Morgin had never feared shadow before, but these . . . they were not true shadow. Not true shadow.
They had hoped that Salula and his Kulls would come in haste, that they would charge down the slope, over the uneven ground at its bottom, and into the trees where the Elhiynes waited. But Salula was no fool, and his scouts were good. They had detected something at the top of the slope that made them wary, so they came now with caution.
Salula halted at the bottom of the hill. He stood high in his stirrups and scanned the terrain before him. Morgin could see nothing of his face, but imagined the smile that formed there, like the smile he’d seen the night Salula had put the lash to his back.
“ShadowLord,” Salula called. His voice, even when raised to a shout, was a low growl. “I am told you are called ShadowLord, enemy of my king. Well your shadows will not hide you from me, ShadowLord. I have come for you, ShadowLord. For you alone. I will have you, ShadowLord, and these other men about you cannot save you. They can die before you and beside you, but you I will have, ShadowLord. You I will devour.”
